


Between the Lines

by owloid



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Post-Canon, Post-Game, Slow Burn, Unexpected Relationship, give this rarepair a chance :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owloid/pseuds/owloid
Summary: (alternatively: Jack Kelso and the Mystery of Marie Phelps)In 1948, insurance investigator Jack Kelso chases the ghost of an old acquaintance.He finds more.
Relationships: Jack Kelso & Marie Phelps, past Jack Kelso/Elsa Lichtmann
Kudos: 6





	Between the Lines

1948\. The new year.

It was no easier than the last. Everything that used to matter felt like it evaporated in seconds. The supposed feats of ‘47 turned out to be no more than another bunch of lies; deceit reflected on Los Angeles in the pieces of a broken mirror, and every shard had its own institution. The LAPD wormed its way out of everything without a scratch, thanks to the new D.A., and the city went right back to how it was. Corruption gripped it like a tourniquet and complacency filled its veins.

When Petersen turned out the way he did all those months ago, Jack Kelso wanted to talk to him at first. He asked for the whys and hows in a way that slippery son of a bitch apparently found harsh, so he was given an ultimatum—shape up or ship out. Even a fool could figure out which option he chose. Jack gave the D.A. one last piece of his mind, boxed up his things, and left that building feeling the best he’d felt in forever.

Finding work wasn’t easy after that. The L.A. offices of California Fire & Life were starting to go under without a competent Vice President, and new insurance companies weren’t exactly eager to compete with any of the big guys. Most of them shuttered after about two, maybe three months; without solid financial backing, they were bound to fail anyway.

Enter an old friend.

Jack didn’t remember too well how they met—things started to blend together after the war, but he knew this friend was from a time long before. Some dinky low-lit bar served as the foundation for their drunken reconciliation, and soon enough a job offer was tossed Jack’s way. Pay was nice, coming in at only $25 less than CF&L, but that wasn’t the reason he was interested in the pitch. The point was made _several_ times that he had a unique chance to get in on the ground floor with this company. His contribution would matter like it never did before, and although Jack was a little hesitant about that, his friend pushed a few more drinks on him and got him to sign on the dotted line.

He came to regret it the next morning. But admonishments did nothing to soothe his hangover, so he shut himself up and decided to accept it. Though Gold Coast Life & Family was a new company at the time, it didn’t have the same warning signs that all the others did. It was backed by investors tied to the Bank of Arcadia; in fact, he recalled being told it was one of the top financial advisors’ pet project. How about that?

So it was back to the grind from then on. He was obviously brought in as an insurance investigator, receiving his own office and a secretary out front—the works. It would be a while before the company picked up steam, so he spent a long time without any good cases, catching a few staged accidents while he begrudgingly helped out some of the younger guys. That was a big change from his apparent ‘lone wolf’ routine; it was as fulfilling as it was frustrating at times, but he found himself getting used to it as time ticked on.

As 1947 finally came to a close, it dawned on Jack that the things that happened in that long year were not as far away as he’d hoped they’d be. The war was in black and white and L.A. was in color—it was vivid, fresh, and uncomfortably real. Fireworks on New Year’s sounded more like gunfire and bombs, and as he sat awake in bed with his head in his hands, he _swore_ he could feel the blood on them. If not for Elsa comforting him, he might’ve stayed like that all night.

He never knew how much he’d miss her until she was gone. Even though he had an inkling their union was destined to fail, the sting in his heart was too stubborn to see reason. They came together as a comfort; a way to numb the pain of losing someone so instrumental in their lives. But like all things born of the absence of another, that emptiness ate at them both until they fell apart.

There he was in the later half of January ‘48. Not exactly washed-up, but not far from it either. At least he did well to follow through on one of his resolutions; he drank less and less with each passing day, and if he _had_ to have some liquor, he’d go to a bar instead of drinking alone. He even got to the point where a single glass of whiskey at work would hold him over for the day—a milestone he hoped he’d reach.

It was in the middle of this midday drink and a phone call that he received a knock on his office door. He looked at the blinds that hid the other side and furrowed his brow. “I’ll have to call you back, Ruth,” he said abruptly, putting his glass down. “Don’t forget to ask mother about that recipe, alright?”

After exchanging goodbyes with his sister, Jack hung up and called towards the door. “Come in.”

It opened to reveal his secretary Doris; she held an envelope that looked to be re-sealed with glue, turning it around in her hand. “Somebody dropped this off for you, Mr. Kelso,” she said. “I didn’t want to interrupt your call so I let it sit on my desk, but—it seemed serious.”

Jack eyed the article and stood, coming around his desk to accept it. He gave a hum and ran his finger along the shoddy glue job at the top. “Did you get a good look at who it was?” he asked, briefly glancing at Doris.

She shook her head. “No, sir. He blended into the crowd.”

Jack up-downed his brows and nodded. “That’s alright. Thank you for getting this to me, Ms. Nichols.”

His secretary gave a tight-lipped, perhaps nervous smile before she stepped out, closing the door behind her. Envelope in hand, Jack went back to his desk and set it down but did not sit. He took a contemplative sip of whiskey as he eyed the delivery; there was no way to tell who it was from or what it could be. It was completely unmarked, and there were bits of adhesive stuck to where the return address would’ve been.

He took a seat once he was done ogling. His drink went to rest atop his desk, but he did not remove his hand from it, instead drumming his fingers on the side of the glass. A thought crossed his mind as he felt along the seal again—shockingly enough, it got him to laugh, albeit bitterly. 

_This is exactly the kind of thing Cole would love to dig into._

It didn’t surprise him how his demeanor immediately soured. He threw back the rest of his whiskey and pushed the glass away, rubbing at the space between his eyes. Now that was a name Jack tried not to think about. Even when he and Elsa were together, they tried very hard not to talk about him. It was well understood between them that there was an embargo on bringing Cole up; whoever did it first (usually Jack) had to sleep on the couch for the night. He never liked that rule—he felt like it was a little tone-deaf—but he kept his mouth shut.

He recalled the funeral thereafter; the fact that Earle gave the eulogy _still_ got under his skin. That chump shed so many crocodile tears that even the dullest nitwit could’ve told it was fake. He didn’t blame Elsa for her outburst even if it was sorely uncalled for, because she actually had the courage to say what he couldn’t. What stuck with him the most about the service, however, weren’t the pretty words or the outrage—it was how _lonely_ the Phelps widow was. She sat alone at the front and kept quiet during the whole thing, only exchanging a few words with Earle before she left with her children. She didn’t even look _back._

Jack didn’t know he thought about it that much. Maybe it was the fact that he never got to _talk_ about it, or maybe it was something he couldn’t identify. Whatever the case, he knew he had to find somebody he could really have a conversation with about it; he would not sleep soundly until then. A restlessness surrounded Cole’s presence in his mind, and he was intent on bringing peace to it.

The envelope would be investigated another time. He opened a drawer on his desk and filed it away, locking it up afterwards. Checking the clock told him it was close enough to the end of the day that he’d be able to leave without issue. So he took his coat from the rack in the corner of the room, and as he left his office, he bid his secretary a distant farewell.

He was not outside for long; he went straight for his car and got in, warming up his chilly hands with a few hot breaths. By all means, he was ready to go at that point, but… a rare uneasiness came over him. Made him pause and doubt not only himself, but also his knowledge of the location. He had only seen it once by happenstance—what made him think he could remember the way _now?_

Shaking his head, Jack turned the car over and placed his hands firmly on the wheel. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He just had to seek her out; if anyone would be willing to talk, it would be _her._

With a deep breath, he drove off.

* * *

By the time Jack pulled up to the house he’d been looking for, it was already so late in the evening. That gave him pause. He questioned if he should really be here at this hour; for a moment he considered turning and leaving, but he had already come so close. How would it sit with him if he gave up right then? The answer was obvious—it wouldn’t.

There was some hesitation before he got out of the car. A frustrated noise escaped him as he finally worked up the fortitude to step out, moving on to button his jacket again and shove his hands in his pockets. The cold air was grounding; it reminded him of his purpose here, the importance of it, and his intentions to see that purpose through before it drove him insane. He sighed through his nose and walked around his car, pausing to get a good look of the abode before him.

It looked awfully pleasant despite everything. A dirt path framed a bit of the front lawn and led to the door, while a driveway emerged from the one-car garage beside the house. There was a short staircase that led up to the porch; it was framed by pillars and shadowed by an overhang that was part of the roof. The windows out front, all except for those at the top that maybe belonged to an attic, were lit up by a warm golden light. No shapes could be made out, for the curtains were most certainly drawn by now.

Jack followed the path and ascended the wooden steps, which creaked under his heavy footfalls. He came to a stop right in front of the door—his hand hovered over the knob, and at some point he had taken off his hat. _It’s improper,_ he chided himself, _to be visiting a widow so late. To be visiting_ any _woman so late. What are you even doing, Jack?_

He bit the inside of his cheek and withdrew his hand. Placing his hat firmly on his head, he spun around to leave, then halted the moment he heard the door opening.

“Yes?”

When Jack turned around, he came face-to-face with Marie Phelps.

She seemed to have been caught in the middle of baking something; the apron tied around her waist was stained with flour, and some had even gotten under her fingernails. It was a day dress she wore under it, bearing neither jewelry nor shoes. And even though she was bare-faced from what Jack could tell, there were no outstanding blemishes that demanded one’s attention—she looked almost angelic, like there was no loss suffered at all.

But Jack knew better. He knew better than to keep staring, too, so he cleared his dry throat and removed his hat once more. “Good evening, Mrs. Phelps,” he greeted. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I wanted… _needed_ to speak with you.”

When Marie looked at him like he had two heads, he cursed himself in silence. She threw a brief glance over her shoulder before stepping a little further outside, holding the door half-shut behind her back. “Mr. Kelso,” she said with a hint of surprise, “I haven’t seen you since the service.”

“Yes, it’s been a while.” He found himself fiddling with the brim of his hat. “Maybe too long.”

She shook her head and politely told him, “No, we all needed time.” Her eyes, in contrast to her words, weren’t very merciful with Jack; she scrutinized him from head to toe like there was something to suspect. “What did you need to talk about?”

It crossed his mind that he probably should’ve thought about how to broach the topic. All of the drafts in his head were crumpled up and tossed in the garbage right then and there, for he had no idea how to bring it up without sounding oafish. “It’s hard to put into the right words,” he admitted, “but it’s been heavy on my mind for a while.”

Marie perked a brow.

“It’s about Cole.”

“Ah,” she sighed, closing her eyes momentarily. She left streaks of flour behind when she held the bridge of her nose and squinched up her face. “Well—you definitely could’ve been gentler with it, but I know that’s a hard thing to do.” Again she was looking at him, but her gaze had softened. “Come in and take a seat, but keep it down. I’ll get you some tea.”

Jack loosened his ever-tightening jaw and nodded, stepping into the house when Marie allowed him to. The thing about the interior that struck him immediately was its cleanliness; it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume such cleaning was done in anticipation of a husband coming home, even though that time had long since passed. 

_Jesus, Cole. Look what you left behind._

As Marie left for the kitchen, Jack found his way to the living room, where a crackling fireplace acted as the only light there. He settled down into an armchair that faced another and looked through the doorway.

He could see the kitchen from where he sat. There had apparently been a kettle on the stove before he arrived, and it alerted Marie, who was searching for something in the pantry, with a high-pitched whistle. She swept from one side of the room to the other so she may take the kettle and set it aside. Jack watched as she retrieved a porcelain teapot and two little cups from a cupboard just out of view; the boiling water went into the teapot, which she dropped a tea bag into before returning its lid to the proper place.

Marie retrieved a timer from the nearest counter and set it. “It’ll only be a few minutes now,” she told Jack from afar.

In the end, Jack only heard her say ‘a few minutes’—he still responded cordially with, “Alright, thank you.”

He grew weary of holding his hat in his lap, so he placed it on the arm of the chair. Something then possessed him to look around. There were framed photographs of Cole and Marie both on the wall and upon the mantel; their wedding picture was there, along with family portraits and the odd vacation photo. He made note of a gap between a particular group of pictures and another—one he recognized as the war, judging by their fashions. It seemed that less photos were taken on the other side.

Against his better judgement, he stood and approached the fireplace, where Cole and Marie’s wedding photo sat. It didn’t look like it was taken in Los Angeles—maybe somewhere more up north, like Sacramento. The arch they stood at was square in the middle of some dead, probably cold trees, and there were no guests in frame. Despite getting married in such a dreary scene, they looked… _happy._ Marie’s merry smile was all teeth, and the passion for life in Cole’s eyes was unmistakable.

His attention was subsequently stolen by a photograph on the opposite side of the mantel. The contrast between this picture and the last was stark; although it had been taken in a more lively season, the subjects were nothing like they were before. Cole and Marie, with a daughter at either side, wore expressions of discontent that Jack recognized all too well. It seemed that the war did a number on their marriage—briefly, he wondered if they’d have even stuck together at all, if not for the affair.

When Marie cleared her throat, Jack winced a little like he’d done something wrong. He turned to face her; she was holding two cups of tea with a sour look on her face. Just as he thought she was going to chastise him, she instead went on to say, “I left it steeping for a bit too long. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” Jack said, accepting the cup he was handed. He found himself looking at the photos again.

Marie followed his eyeline. “That one was taken in 1940,” she said of the wedding picture, “and the other in ‘46. I couldn’t bear to take them down.” She went to sit down, right across from Jack’s chair.

He glanced to Marie then back again, before he eventually shook his head and took a seat once more; silence lapsed between them thereafter. His teacup was placed on a short table beside the chair. “I wanted to start by offering my condolences,” he said, with his hands clasped and his elbows on his knees, “and telling you that I’m sorry. For… his loss, of course, but also for the service.”

Brow furrowed, she set down her cup in turn once she’d taken a sip from it. “Why the service?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap. “It wasn’t too bad.”

“It wasn’t, but it still didn’t feel right. At least not to me.” He sighed through his nose. “You shouldn’t have been alone up there; more of us should’ve said something.”

“Oh, stop it,” Marie said, waving a hand. “I wasn’t in the mood to talk, anyway. I only let Earle speak to me because I was afraid he’d pester me until I gave in. That’s why I left so fast afterwards.”

Jack gave a small hum. “That’s understandable, I guess,” he said. “Have you, uh…” he trailed off, words frying. He took a sip of tea to wet his throat and decided to rephrase the question. “How’ve you been since then?”

It was such a simple question, yet it still seemed to catch her off-guard. She sat back a little and looked up at the ceiling. “Well,” she sighed, “if you asked me this a month ago, I wouldn’t have known what to tell you. But I think, at this point, I’m doing… better. Not necessarily _good_ yet, but definitely better.”

She paused to take a cigarette from a case she kept on the table beside _her_ chair, which Jack was quick to lean forward and light. As he returned his lighter to his pocket, she continued on with, “It’s been hard, of course. I still expect him to come home, sometimes—I imagine that I’ll open the door to see him and I’ll leap into his arms, like they do in the pictures.” She let out a rueful laugh. “Aside from that, I’m starting to accept it.”

Jack nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. He sat forward like the thinking man and kept his eyes on the floor. “You’re not alone in that,” he admitted. “I used to have dreams that he survived—he’d come to my door like I came to his, and I’d help him out before seeing him on his way back home.” His brow furrowed. “It was a favor I never repaid.”

Marie did not speak; instead, she took another cigarette from its case and held it out to him. He accepted the offer and lit up. “From the way he talked about you,” she finally said, “I’d have never guessed you were close.”

He looked up and forced out a laugh. “No, we weren’t close at all actually,” he told her, stashing his lighter. “To me he was just somebody who kept coming back up, and I guess that’s what I was for him too. I thought we had parted ways for good after he went home, but that didn’t turn out to be true in the end.”

Her sharp gaze never left Jack’s face, even as she took a long drag from her cigarette. She blew out smoke to the side. “Can I ask what he was like during the war?”

Now it was Jack’s turn to be caught unprepared. Memories cycled through his mind like a film reel, and shades of black and white were projected on his eyelids. He didn’t even know he closed his eyes until he rubbed at them. Soon enough, however, he opened his eyes again and looked straight at Marie. “He was…” he trailed off, “hungry. Not for blood, but for glory. And I don’t mean to be rude, but he was _awful_ arrogant, too. A lot of the guys in our regiment didn’t like him.”

Marie scoffed. “That sounds like him,” she remarked, pausing to take a sip of tea. “He was the soul of _carpe diem_ back then, and he truly believed he could do anything. He believed he’d go down in the history books someday, too.” She shook her head with a sour expression. “As much as I miss it, it’s no wonder we got sick of each other.”

Jack couldn’t think of anything to say to that; thus, he kept quiet, smoking his cigarette and drinking his tea. There was a long pause where he sorted through questions in his mind. Eventually, he landed on one that he hoped wouldn’t upset her. “What was he like at home?”

“Before or after?” she asked, brows raised.

He thought about it for a moment. “Both, if that’s alright.”

She sat back in her chair and blew out smoke. “Before, he was the happiest a man could be—we had a Christmas wedding, and only a few months later we were told our daughters were on the way. I thought he’d go on to be a lawyer for a while, but then came Pearl Harbor.” Marie paused to take another drag. “He became obsessed with the war. He felt like it was what he was meant to do with his life; even told me early on that was why God put him here.” Her nostrils flared. “So he signed up.”

“After he came home,” she went on to say, “he was different. He became distant and cold, focused solely on his career once he got better. I was never told about the war, nor the LAPD, not even any of the books he’d read; he just stopped _telling_ me things altogether.” Marie folded her arms and frowned. “I thought it was my fault for the longest time. Then I heard the same thing from every other wife in the neighborhood.”

Jack had almost drained his cup of tea by the time he spoke again. “I can’t imagine,” he said. His hands were clasped again, and his elbows returned to his knees. “It wasn’t easy having nobody to come home to, but— _Christ,_ I just can’t imagine.”

Marie gave a tired smile. “Now you can,” she said, taking a sip from her cup.

The ticking of a wall-mounted clock kept the silence from becoming too stifling. Jack found himself picking at his nails like some jittery dunce, and he kept that from going on any longer by focusing on his cigarette. His saving grace eventually came when Marie picked up the conversation, having finished her tea.

“What made you come here, anyway?” she asked, peering at him.

He took a breath and held it for a while. Then, he sighed. “There was an envelope left for me, by someone not even my secretary could describe. I never opened it—I just looked at it and thought, ‘now there’s something Cole would love to get into’.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I started thinking of the service, then you. You seemed like the one person who’d be most willing to talk about everything.”

A hum escaped her. “It turns out that wasn’t a bad assumption to make,” she told him. “I admit that I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle it at first, but so far you’re the only person that’s made an effort to reach out. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Jack looked at her with raised brows. “You wouldn’t have disappointed me,” he said. “It’s a hard thing to talk about, Mrs. Phelps. I’d never blame you for it.”

She let out a small laugh. “Good to know. And, please—” she smiled, “it’s Marie.”

He returned the smile readily yet wearily. “Then,” he said, holding out a hand, “it’s Jack.”

Amused, Marie shook his hand and said, “Isn’t it a little too late to be shaking hands? We’ve already discussed a very personal thing.”

“You have a point,” he agreed, absentmindedly turning to look at the clock. The hour surprised him to the point of a double-take; it was approaching ten o’clock _._ “Speaking of it being late, I think it’d be best if I left.”

“What?” she asked and glanced at the time. “Oh.”

Jack offered a polite bow of his head and stood, returning his hat to its rightful place. He was heading for the door in a bit of a hurry; Marie caught up so she could see him out properly, however, and they smiled at each other as he stood on the porch.

“Thank you for the tea and the cigarette. And the talk, of course,” he said. 

“Thank _you,_ ” she said in return. “Believe it or not, I feel a bit lighter.” That brought some warmth to Jack’s smile. He was going to say something, but she cut him off by asking, “Do you have a way I could reach you? A telephone number, anything?”

“Oh—yes, let me give you my card.” Jack went through his jacket and soon retrieved his business card. Printed upon it was the number to reach his office at Gold Coast Life & Family, for giving her his home number would be inappropriate. He handed it over.

Marie smiled and tucked the card away. “Now I can bother you for another visit.”

He looked at her tentatively. Glancing from his left to his right, Jack asked with every ounce of honesty, “Wouldn’t your neighbors be suspicious?”

The laugh that got out of her, much to Jack’s surprise, was closer to a guffaw. “No, no,” she said through it, “there’s no need to worry about that.” Clearing her throat, Marie spoke plainly. “But they might if you linger on my doorstep any longer. Goodnight, Jack.”

She was already starting to shut him out. As the last sliver of her face was overtaken by the door, he belatedly told her, “Goodnight, princess.”

Jack stood there and just stared at the door. He soon cleared his throat and turned around, descending the steps. The dirt path led him back to the sidewalk and he went for his car from there. He got in, turned the engine over, and just… sat still with his hands on the wheel.

He realized something in that moment. It was so deeply inconsequential that he wondered why he even picked up on it; it had nothing to do with Cole, nor a single thing he spoke of with Marie.

_She had flour on her nose that whole time._

Jack, thoroughly baffled with himself, merely shook his head before he finally took his leave.

* * *

The night was restless.

That was never any different; Jack had trouble sleeping long before he went overseas, and it only got worse when he came home. What _was_ different, however, was what infested his mind. He couldn’t get Cole out of his head. Coming at him were memories of the man in lieu of dreams that night, each one tattered like a page in an old book, with every word printed in misery. There was nothing he could do except lie there and endure.

Jack was chasing a ghost and he knew it. He had to wonder if there really _was_ closure waiting for him at the end—he feared he would come out the other side worse than before. But there were so many things he wanted to know. It felt like the truth moved further away every time he reached for it; he was a man possessed, driven by some unknowable urge to dig into days long gone and unearth exactly what Cole left behind.

He knew of one piece to that puzzle now. Maybe even three; he didn’t meet Cole’s daughters today, but that house was overwhelmed by grief. It wouldn’t surprise him if they had the same imagination as their mother, hoping he’d come back in spite of everything. And dear God, their mother… she drew him in like never before. There was more to know about her that he was keen to learn, and he wouldn’t even let himself think of what _that_ could imply.

At some point there, he had fallen asleep. When he woke up, he realized two things: his migraines were back and he probably slept through his alarm. A look at the clock told him the latter was correct. He rushed to get ready for work with a slew of curses to color his morning, unfortunately forwent a much-needed shave, and high-tailed it on over to the GCL&F building.

It was such a busy day that he was able to slip in unnoticed, luckily avoiding an earful from his boss who stood by the door. He came to the desk in front of his office; Doris smiled and stood long before he got there, however, and wasted no time in getting to business.

“Good morning, Mr. Kelso,” she said. “You were left a message.”

“I was?” he asked, perking a brow. “From who?”

Doris retrieved a small piece of folded-up paper from one of her many drawers, handing it to Jack. “She said her name was Marie Joyce.”

He took the note perhaps too quickly, for his secretary began to eye him in questioning. Before she could say anything, Jack told her, “Thanks for writing it down,” and turned to enter his office.

His hat and coat were placed on a rack before he unfolded the paper. It read:

 _Lunch soon? Give me a call.  
_ _HO5-312_

Jack found that he had a little more resolve to stick it out to the end of the day. He refolded the note and tucked it into the pocket by his heart, focusing on the envelope still on his desk thereafter. With a sigh, he cracked his knuckles.

“Alright,” he said to himself, “let’s figure you out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i was gonna write a funny “special thanks” thing for the song that kept me emo enough to write this shit and i JUST realized in We Don’t Deserve Love by Arcade Fire he starts talking about a mary(!!!) & jesus allegory in the end. fuck
> 
> also hi i haven’t been here since i deleted my old ao3 account


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